


Subconscious Cravings

by MacBean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacBean/pseuds/MacBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John starts noticing some things about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subconscious Cravings

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've written in more than two and a half years and it's the first _anything_ I've written in about six months. So try to keep that in mind and keep your criticism constructive and relatively gentle. Thaaaaanks!
> 
> Also, the tag "Sherlock/John - Relationship" is not exactly correct but I can't seem to edit it to anything that fits, so...

The first time it happens, John is sitting opposite a table from Sarah, telling her about the time when he and Harry were very small and she'd forced him to trade costumes with her at a fancy dress party. He'd ended up a fairy princess (at least the dress was blue, he'd told himself at the time, trying to cling to his six-year-old dignity) while his sister got his bandana skull cap, eye patch and cardboard cutlass.

Sarah laughs at the story, dropping her gaze to the table just in front of her coffee cup and John's glad she isn't looking at him anymore. The whole point of sharing the tale was to amuse her but now that it's worked the pleasant lurch in his stomach makes him feel like he's a teenager again and he can tell he's blushing a little. He's not quite ready to act like such a plonker in front of her yet. A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth as he watches her, admiring the way her lashes lie against her skin, but another thought interrupts: Sherlock's are longer, thicker, _prettier_ , and without the assistance of makeup.

John blinks, startled, wondering where _that_ came from, and blushes even more. It's _definitely_ a good thing Sarah isn't looking at him now. He pushes the strange thought to the back of his mind and refocuses on the woman across from him, trying to get her to share a childhood story or two to keep the getting-to-know-you conversation alive.

*

The next time it happens, he's at the market just to pick up milk and bread. And tea bags because sometimes life (and Lestrade) called and there just wasn't time or energy to brew a proper cup. The cashier turns her head away from him to call over her shoulder to a co-worker for a price check and the line of her throat catches John's attention. It wasn't noticeable when her head was bowed as she rang up his items but now the new angle exposes a long, graceful neck. Her skin is smooth and pale and it looks decadently soft. _So much like Sherlock's_ , John thinks.

Once again, he blinks, startled and confused. He isn't sure how long he stands there staring off into space with a puzzled expression on his face but the girl behind the register looks more than just a little concerned when it takes a nearly-shouted "Sir?" to bring John back to Earth. He pays and wishes her a good rest-of-the-work-shift without seeming _too_ preoccupied but the ten-minute walk home ends up taking him the better part of an hour.

*

This time... This time there is no proxy. There is no moment to blink in confusion, not even a spare second to _think_.

They're standing close, face-to-face in a room that John recognizes vaguely, but he can't quite decide from where. Sherlock is talking excitedly at him and John is dimly aware that the other man is _trying_ to talk _to_ him. Somehow he knows it's about the case they're working, only ... John can't remember what the case actually _is_ and he isn't really listening, anyway. He's watching Sherlock's mouth instead. It's the sort of mouth, John thinks, that absolutely demands attention.

The left corner begins to quirk upward in a smug smirk but John sees Sherlock make a conscious effort to stop it, his full bottom lip thinning as he tightens it to stifle the expression and keep from looking like he knows what he just said is brilliant. It's a familiar change; Sherlock knows he's extraordinary but he seems to like outside validation, especially, for some reason, from John. Usually John is more than happy to give it but right now he _still_ doesn't know what Sherlock is on about because he's utterly mesmerized by that perfect Cupid's bow and the way his tongue flickers out to moisten his lips when he pauses for a breath.

Suddenly, Sherlock's hands are at the sides of John's face, gripping his head tightly and giving a little shake. Of course they are, because it would hardly take a genius to see that John's mind is somewhere else completely and Sherlock _is_ a genius and nothing if not observant. Unable to ignore such a straightforward demand for attention, John's eyes focus and dart up to meet Sherlock's gaze. He looks concerned -- genuinely concerned, John thinks, or maybe just hopes -- and intense. So intense...

 _Kiss him._ The thought invades his mind just as quickly as the first two did, only this time Sherlock is _right here_ and even though most of the time when people call John a "man of action" they mean to be teasing slightly, he _is_. The little distance left between them disappears in an instant. John's hand comes to rest at the back of Sherlock's head and his fingers curl, clenching roughly around a fistful of the other man's hair and giving it a tug, pulling him into a heated kiss.

It's far from perfect. Their mouths meet with a force and at an angle that crushes Sherlock's bottom lip between their teeth for a moment. He makes a faint pained sound but instead of pulling away John feels him lean into it. Slightly surprised by this granting of permission, John is put off balance. He starts to stumble backward but one of Sherlock's arms wraps around his waist, holding him up and drawing their bodies even closer together. John can feel his own increased pulse throbbing in some rather interesting places, and the last time he noticed Sherlock having this much difficulty breathing was after a chase through an especially cluttered back alley.

They fumble for control rather than battling for it; they each want it but neither has a strong objection to the other taking it. It's like they're performing some kind of awkward waltz with everybody and nobody leading at the same time, and no idea where they mean to end up. The arm of a chair meets with the backs of John's knees, threatening to topple him, but Sherlock is there to save him again, holding onto him tightly.

They finally come to a halt when Sherlock's back hits a bookshelf hard enough to make its few loose contents wobble and threaten to fall. His breath comes out in an audible "oof" and John tries to mutter an apology but he can't be bothered to pull far enough away to allow the words to be discernible. He almost tries to speak again to protest when Sherlock's arm disappears from around him but he cuts himself off when he realizes where it's got to instead.

It can't be more than three seconds flat before John's belt buckle is undone and his trousers are unzipped. He would've expected more fumbling, given the state of things so far, but no; Sherlock seems to know _exactly_ what he's doing now. A helpless hum of pleasure vibrates at the back of his throat and his whole body trembles a little as Sherlock's hand slips under the waistband of John's pants and--

He wakes up suddenly, sitting bolt upright in bed, and the sound he makes isn't dissimilar from the ones he makes when he wakes up from combat nightmares. Panting slightly, he raises a hand to rub his face and flops back onto his pillow. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and shakes his head. A dream. It was all a dream. He should have known it, he realizes. Sherlock's lips... They hadn't tasted like anything. And surely, whatever Sherlock's lips _do_ taste like, it's something explicit and unyielding. He would have noticed it.

John groans softly, frustrated on several levels. He's so hard it's painful and he shifts in bed, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow to muffle another even louder moan as he presses his hips into the mattress, trying desperately to will away this physical reaction. And then John hears the last thing he wants to hear at the moment: his name being shouted. Of _course_ Sherlock is awake at this hour. And of _course_ he heard John sounding like he's been shaken from a nightmare. And of _course_ he's in one of his human moods and is expressing concern instead of just ignoring John's distress.

He tries to pretend he's asleep but Sherlock is having none of it. John hears his name called again, a little softer, actually, and with a note of something that he might call solicitude if he didn't know Sherlock better. There's even an "All right?" tacked on. His imagination, still clinging to the dream even though he's making a conscious effort to banish it with all the rest of his mind, inserts the dialogue into the dream scenario and plays the picture for John; Sherlock murmuring his name, maybe very close to his ear, touching him, asking if it's all right...

John's hips press into the mattress even more. He squirms a little and comes hard, biting his lower lip with enough force to draw blood. He knows he can't moan again, not least of all because he can actually hear Sherlock moving through the flat toward him -- the other man is probably convinced that someone has broken in and is trying to kill John, based on all the damn noise he's made so far -- so he forces the sounds fighting to escape his throat into a hoarse, strangled reply, insisting that everything's just fine and Sherlock needn't worry.

The footsteps stop and John listens for their retreat. It comes eventually and without any further vocal exchange but not for nearly two full minutes. John relaxes a little but only a _very_ little. He's not sure he'll ever be able to look Sherlock in the face again.


End file.
